


Out of the Blue

by ivefoundmygoldfish (melonpanparade)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:00:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3478772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melonpanparade/pseuds/ivefoundmygoldfish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should have known his interest in Mycroft would never remain secret in the face of Mycroft's incredibly observant brother. </p><p>Or, the one where Sherlock blurted out something Greg wasn't ready to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out of the Blue

**Author's Note:**

> One day I'll learn to write Mystrade in AU settings properly. One day. 
> 
> Oh, and Sherlock and Mycroft have an age gap of 10 years or something here.

“That’s not something normal people know. What a freak!”

“And you are obviously an uneducated plebe. Perhaps _you_ need to go back to reception with your lack of intelligence. Then you’ll finally be able to comprehend the topics taught in class instead of having Sally explain it to you after school.”

“That’s for—never mind, a loser like you wouldn’t know anything about relationships.”

Greg pinches the bridge of his nose. Almost three weeks into the school term and he is already rethinking his decision to take up this teaching position in London. It isn’t all bad, though. City life has its perks, and the bakery just down the road from his flat is certainly one of them. He loves having the smell of freshly baked bread waft through his windows first thing in the morning, and several times a week he makes it a point to end his morning run at the shop. The bakery is a small price for a good breakfast and a good mood, but even his bread-induced good mood can be broken at times.

Like now.

He inhales for three long seconds, silently praying for patience before he makes his way over to the bickering students.

“Sherlock Holmes and Philip Anderson! What did I say about name-calling and insults in my classroom?”

“You don’t tolerate name-calling and insults towards others in your classroom, sir,” Philip mumbles. Well, at least one of the boys knows it in theory, even if he has trouble applying it in practice, and is so often the instigator of the disturbances in the classroom.

“Good. Remember that.” Greg walks around the desk into Sherlock’s direct line of sight. “You too, Sherlock.” Sherlock remains slouched in his chair with his arms crossed and a stubborn set to his jaw. “Now, let’s try and make the last five minutes of class a peaceful five minutes. After all, you wouldn’t want to spend your lunch writing lines, would you? Or maybe you’d prefer to do your group project with each other…”

It’s almost comical to watch how quickly their faces contort into the most horrified expressions imaginable. 

“I refuse to have that pea-sized brain—”

“Working with that creep—”   

“Now, what did I say about name-calling and insults?”

“Yes, Mr Lestrade.”

“A peaceful five minutes, boys.”

 

* * *

 

“A peaceful five minutes was all I asked for,” Greg moans, stepping into the Social Sciences staffroom and savouring the emptiness and calm of the room. Those last five minutes of class had been a complete _disaster._ “Was that too much to ask for?”

“Perhaps.”

Greg moves forward and then peers around to his left, where the voice came from. “Bloody hell, Mycroft. I thought the room was empty.”

“It is not, but if you are still after your five minutes of peace, that can easily be arranged.”

“No, no, it’s alright,” Greg says with a wave of his hand. He makes his way to his desk and sits down gratefully; whoever worked here before him left a very comfortable chair. Earlier, the filing cabinet obstructed his vision from the doorway, but his desk offers a clear view of the other person in the room: Mycroft Holmes. He’d be lying if he said he’s never looked over in that direction and thought some less-than-professional thoughts about his colleague.

The thing is, Mycroft is Greg’s type—or close enough to it anyway. It’s his quiet, unassuming aura, his intelligence, his impeccable clothing—he hasn’t seen a teacher, or any young person for that matter, wear a waistcoat to work before, but Mycroft wears it well—and those _freckles_. Everywhere. Freckles smattered across his cheekbones, on the tip of his nose, on the back of his hands, disappearing into the cuffs of his dress shirt. And he’s lost count of the endless times he’s found himself marvelling at the way Mycroft’s blue eyes stand out whenever he wears blue. It’s an easy task to get lost in the details that define Mycroft, especially when they share the same staffroom.

“I do hope my younger brother didn’t cause a commotion for you again, Greg,” Mycroft says. 

Oh yes, another detail that defines Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes is Sherlock Holmes’ older brother.

“No blood or fists involved, so I count today as a win.” He offers a weak smile, trying to ignore how the slight upturn of Mycroft’s lips makes him feel.

“Indeed, that is most fortunate.”

And if there’s one thing he’s learnt since he started teaching here, it’s that Mycroft will talk—talk _a lot_ —if the conversation is about Sherlock, because he has a huge, soft spot for his younger brother.

“Was he worse when he was younger?”

“My mother home schooled us when we were younger, so Sherlock didn’t meet many children until year 3. And as you must already know, he is very observant when it comes to other people’s lives and not in the least afraid to make his observations known.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed that.” In fact, it’s the main reason why Sherlock is always chafing with other students. That, and the obvious boredom he has with the curriculum. “He’s also very smart, too smart for his age group.”

Mycroft nods. “The school and my parents have discussed promoting him to a higher grade again, but as with everyone else, Sherlock needs school to help with social and emotional growth, not only to fulfil academic endeavours.” 

“That’s true. Maybe I’ll put together some more challenging work for when he finishes early.”

“That would be helpful.” Mycroft pauses momentarily before continuing. “I’m rather surprised you noticed. Most teachers here find it difficult to see past Sherlock’s social behaviour.”

 

* * *

 

Greg finds himself experiencing that very social behaviour first hand, two weeks later, one Friday after school has finished for the day and the rest of their department has left for home. There’s a loud rapping on the door of the staffroom, and then Sherlock’s voice rings out clearly.

“Mike? I’m done with my violin lesson. Let’s go.”

“Just give me a minute, Sherlock,” Mycroft calls out, clearing his work area and packing away a sheaf of papers into his briefcase.

Sherlock wanders into the room and stops in front of Greg’s desk, eyes sweeping over the papers spread across the surface. “What are you still doing here, Lestrade?”

“Nice to see you too, Sherlock.”

“Mr Lestrade, Sherlock,” Mycroft reprimands. Greg grins at Sherlock’s look of displeasure. He’s commanded a bit of Sherlock’s respect—at least when it comes to doing classwork—but the boy still can’t seem to get into the habit of addressing him as mister. His grin only grows wider when Mycroft adds, “Do mind your manners.” 

“Mr Lestrade,” he begins sullenly. In his peripheral vision, Greg can see Mycroft’s nod of approval. “Why are you here?”

“Uh, marking your tests from Tuesday.” It’s not entirely a lie. He _was_ doing that, up until half an hour ago when he finished and decided he didn’t want to leave; not when he could savour the opportunity to be with Mycroft without anyone else in the room. Much easier to sneak glances his way without worrying about any of their other colleagues catching him.

Just when he’s beginning to believe his half-truth worked, he finds himself on the receiving end of Sherlock’s scrutinising gaze, appraising him silently. Even though he’s the teacher, Greg feels like he’s in high school again, waiting outside the principal’s office after doing something wrong. Except this time, he must have done something really wrong, because Sherlock turns to Mycroft and declares, “Lestrade likes it when you wear blue.”

“Sherlock! How many times have I told you not to disclose other people’s affairs? Wait outside, now.” The staffroom door shuts with a click, and when Mycroft starts to speak, he’s standing in front of Greg’s desk. His briefcase rests on the floor, and his hands are clasped at his front. “I apologise for my brother’s behaviour.”

“No, no, it’s alright.” Greg laughs weakly. Oh, what the hell. In for a penny, in for a pound. He gestures to Mycroft’s blue shirt and explains, “He wasn’t lying. It does look good on you.”

Mycroft stands there, quiet, and for a moment, Greg thinks he’s really put his foot in his mouth this time—without Sherlock’s help, too. He doesn’t even realise he’s been holding his breath until Mycroft murmurs, “I—thank you. And, Greg…?”

Once more, Greg waits with bated breath, wondering what this Holmes brother has to say.

“I shall be sure to wear blue tomorrow.”

**Author's Note:**

> And just because I can't pass up an opportunity to link to young!Mark wearing a blue button-up shirt: [here](http://lestradeinglasses.tumblr.com/post/90025706073/too-old-to-be-such-a-fangirl-firstfanette).


End file.
